


Forged Bonds

by Red_Tigress



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Porthos-centric, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Tigress/pseuds/Red_Tigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Porthos got his commission is also the story of the how the Three Inseparables came to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of the Court

**Author's Note:**

> The first two chapters were written before 1x08. Many thanks to the people over at the Beta Branch for editing this. See end for more notes.

Treville had been to the Court to see the man known as Porthos Du Vallon fight a few times now. The man had a healthy spirit about him, something that was so often missing from most of the people down here. He was a good fighter, and Treville had seen how he used his environment around him to his advantage. He was competitive without being mean-spirited; when he outclassed other fighters he brought them down swiftly with only small smiles. When he was in for a challenge, his grin was wider, but not malicious. In victory, he didn’t gloat, but cheered like a man honestly pleased with his success.

He was precisely the sort of person Treville was looking for.

It was maybe after the 5th time Treville saw him fight when Porthos himself slid into a seat across the table from him in the dingy tavern on the edge of the Court of Miracles. He was giving him an easy smile, but his eyes spoke of wariness.

“Seen you around a few times,” Porthos said, skipping all pre-tense. “Mind telling me what you’re doing hanging around the Court?”

“Enjoying a good fight,” Treville answered easily. “What makes you think otherwise?”

Porthos nodded towards the floor. “Your boots are clean, for one. Far too clean for this place. You’re clean-shaven, and while you try to blend in, you aren’t really.” Porthos smiled again, this time threatening. “Men like you come here looking to trade in people. So I’ll ask again: Why are you here?”

Treville nodded slowly, already appreciating the protective streak in the man. Of course men had probably come here, looking for a quick and easy way to trap people into a lifetime of indentured servitude because they were too desperate to say no. Porthos seemed to have taken on a role of unofficial protector. Treville decided to be upfront with him.

“My name is Treville. I am the Commander of the King’s Musketeers.” He pulled his cloak aside, so Porthos could see the insignia on his spauldron.

Porthos blinked in surprise, his prepared comebacks seemingly having fled. His eyes grew wary again and his smile disappeared, not being sure of what would happen next.

“I will be honest with you, Porthos. I’ve seen you fight a few times. And I think you’re the sort of man I’d like in my garrison.”

Treville saw the other man’s eyes light up with hope, but that hope was quickly replaced by caution again. “I highly doubt that,” he said.

“Why do you think that?” Treville asked.

“Well…” Porthos’ squared his jaw stubbornly. “That stuff’s for nobles and the like,” he said. But the way he said it was faltering, like he was just parroting what other people had said to him.

Treville gave a light chuckle, thinking of some of the drunken brawls he had had to pull the Musketeers out of. “I assure you it’s not.” He leaned forward on the table, looking at Porthos intently. “I won’t deny that it will be difficult. Even more so for someone like you having grown up here.” Porthos didn’t bristle at his comment like he expected, but instead seemed appreciative at the openness. “At first, the differences may be marked. Do you know how to use a sword?”

Porthos grimaced. “Not well,” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his head.

“You would have to study swordplay, shooting, new fighting techniques, horsemanship…and that’s only part of the physical work. You’d need to know court etiquette, forestry survival…all manner of things. You have more to learn than most other men that come through the ranks, but I think you could do it.”

Porthos didn’t say anything, but he was clearly interested. The change in lifestyle, the diversity of it…the thought of it was quickly overwhelming the simple life he knew.

“Even _after_ you did all that,” Treville continued. “It still could take a while to actually earn your commission. Opportunities don’t come that often, and even when they did…well, honestly, people may not see past your skin tone.”

Porthos grinned widely at that. “Well, just have to prove ‘em wrong, eh?”

Treville couldn’t keep the smile off his own face at the response. “I was hoping you’d say that. So is that a yes?”

“I…” Porthos hesitated. Treville saw him glance at a few of the people around them. Ah. Porthos was so protective, it was only natural he wouldn’t want to leave people behind while he himself was advancing.

“Would you like a few days to consider it?” Treville asked softly.

Porthos nodded gratefully. “Thank you. But no matter my decision, thank you greatly for the offer.” Treville took his offered hand and shook it.

“You’re very welcome. I don’t know you that well yet, Porthos, but something tells me you’ve earned it. I’ll return in a few days.”

Porthos nodded. “You’ll have my answer then.”

Four days later, Porthos was accompanying him through the gates of the Musketeers garrison.


	2. The Teacher

After breakfast on Porthos’ first morning with the Musketeers, Treville went looking for someone who could instruct him. Porthos had only been here an afternoon and while the regiment was civil enough to his face, Treville didn’t miss the way Porthos got the cold shoulder from most of them. Treville couldn’t force them to like them, and he knew it may take some time getting Porthos accepted into the regiment as an equal.

That said, he still needed someone to teach the young man, especially when he couldn’t. Mentally running down the roster, he discarded name after name until…

Treville paused, eyes sweeping the yard from where he overlooked the training exercises. A light rain had begun to fall, but it didn’t discourage his men from practicing their training. Porthos sat, watching silently from the sides. But Treville’s eyes continued to scan the yard until he found what he was looking for.

Aramis was sitting on top of a barrel under some of the awnings on the far side. The dim, grey day seemed perfectly suited to the mood that had been plaguing the man the last few months. Since Savoy and losing Marsac, Aramis had withdrawn completely. He still participated in training exercises when mandated, but the few missions Treville had sent him on since Savoy had ended with his fellows complaining about his stubbornness and unwillingness to cooperate. He was one of Treville’s best soldiers, who was quickly becoming one of his worst.

The idea was so ludicrous, Treville almost discarded it. But what if Porthos’ positivity was exactly what Aramis needed to break out of his melancholy? Aramis had the skills and the patience to teach Porthos what he needed, and since Treville wasn’t sending him on missions he certainly had the time. Porthos was new and fresh and different, and certainly distracting enough that maybe, just maybe, the man could make Aramis forget about Savoy, even if temporarily.

Decision made, Treville marched down the stairs to where Porthos was sitting. “Come with me,” he said, making Porthos start slightly. “There’s someone I want to introduce you to.”

*

*

*

Aramis looked up suspiciously as Treville approached him with the new recruit in tow. Aramis hadn’t yet introduced himself. Why bother? Either he’d be dead or Aramis was going to lose his commission soon enough, he was sure. He hadn’t missed the way Treville had given him less and less to do. He knew it was his own fault, really, but he just couldn’t be inspired to move on with his life.

Aramis’ boot heel thunked against the side of the barrel. “Captain,” he greeted solemnly. He eyed the new recruit. There was no denying the man was huge, but he could see the cut of muscle easily under his shirt. He doubted Treville was picking people off the streets based on their physique alone, though.

“Aramis,” the captain greeted easily. “Meet Porthos.” The large man inclined his head, but remained silent. Aramis politely inclined his head back, before his eyes glanced back at Treville, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You’re going to train him,” Treville smiled matter-of-factly.

Aramis blinked in surprise before he frowned. “Why me?”

“You’re not doing anything else, correct?” Treville asked. Aramis sucked in a huge breath. For the first time in months, he felt shame at neglecting his duties. “Get him a sword. You’ll start with that.”

He turned to leave, clapping Porthos on the back. “Have fun.”

They both watched Treville go, before Aramis hopped off the barrel. Porthos followed him to the armory, both men equally stoic. Aramis turned to size him up again. “Hmm. I’m not sure what Treville had in mind when he brought you here.” He turned back to the unclaimed swords on the wall, searching for something.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Porthos growled and Aramis immediately sensed he was on the defensive.

“You’re just so big. I don’t know if we have many swords for people your size,” Aramis complained, hefting a few rapiers.

“Oh,” Porthos relaxed as his eyes drifted around the dusty room. “What about that?” He pointed towards a rack near the floor, where a few large schianovas were kept.

“A broadsword?” Aramis shook his head. “You don’t want that.

“Why not?” Porthos protested. He moved over to the rack, wrapping his hand through the basket-hilt easily.

“Well,” Aramis said. “You don’t want to be fighting refined blades with a hackjob like that.”

“ ‘M not refined,” Porthos said, testing the weight of the blade.

Aramis didn’t reply to that, but watched the other man in consideration. Porthos twirled the blade easily, not coming close to hitting anything. “Let me see it,” Aramis insisted. Porthos handed it over, and Aramis tested the balance. He gave it its own experimental slash through the air. “Well, I can’t say it’s really my type, but the balance is good and we can work with it. You should take it to the blademaster to be sharpened, though.” He spun the sword around, offering it hilt first to Porthos who took it. The larger man just gave him a bit of a smug look which Aramis did not return.

Once the blade was taken care of, Aramis spent the next few hours judging what Porthos knew about fencing. Which unfortunately wasn’t a lot. Porthos had spent the first hour swinging the sword like a club, after which Aramis had had to go back and instruct him like a novice. He was learning basic positions now.

Aramis had been surprised to see how attentive the man was, and he asked a lot of questions, “Why?” being the most. But it wasn’t obnoxiously, it was with genuine curiosity. The man wanted to understand the craft, the reasons behind doing things. Admittedly, it surprised Aramis. He felt a little guilty at letting his assumptions be formed by the initial physical appearance of a man.

As the days went by, and they practiced slow spars against each other, Aramis was also very surprised and pleased to see Porthos had a natural control of the space around him. He always knew where Aramis’ sword would be, and where his body was. When Aramis remarked on it one evening, Porthos had just shrugged.

“Comes from bein’ a fighter. Gotta always know where the other man is or else you’re gonna get hurt.”

“How much did you fight in the Court?” Aramis asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Porthos looked him in the eye and gave him a rare, knowing smile. “Lots.” A beat, and then, “Wanna learn?”

“I already know how to fight,” Aramis insisted.

Porthos gave a huff and grinned. “Not like this, you don’t.”

Which is how the next morning instead of practicing swords, Aramis found himself circling around Porthos, barehanded. Porthos was grinning far too widely for Aramis’ liking.

“Now when you’re someone like you, fighting against someone like me-” Porthos began.

“Go for the head?” Aramis asked.

Porthos shook his head. “Use size and strength against him.”

“I know that,” Aramis insisted irritably. “From fencing.”

“Knowing it and practicing it are two different things,” Porthos said. Then without any warning, he roared so loudly it made everyone in the yard turn, and rushed Aramis.

Flustered, Aramis automatically lashed out with his fist right at Porthos’ nose. With astonishing speed, Porthos dodged to the side like a cat (tiger, more-like), and leaned down. Before Aramis could even process what was happening, Porthos had grabbed his ankle, pulled him up, and flipped him on his back on the ground all in the span of a second and a half.

Aramis lay there, panting for breath, as Porthos stood above him, grinning. “That was dirty,” Aramis accused.

“Nah, dirty would have been throwin’ dirt in your eyes first.” Porthos reached down a hand to help him up. Aramis took it. “Everything’s fair in a fight for your life.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aramis smiled very slightly.

“Now, here’s what you should have done.” Porthos began explaining some basic maneuvers to Aramis, as Treville watched from the balcony in front of his office.

*

*

*

Aramis was leaning on the railing of the ring in front of the stables, watching Porthos on his horse move from a trot to a canter. “Keep your heels down!” he shouted. Porthos grimaced. He’d never ridden a horse in his life before a week ago, and it seemed like another twenty things he had to remember to do all at once. He was trying to focus on leaning back as the horse moved into the canter, but he bounced forward. Too late, he remembered he was supposed to keep his heels down for a reason, and his foot slid out of the stirrup. He leaned forward in an attempt to correct it, but felt himself sliding down the side of the saddle at an alarming rate.

With a curse, Porthos from his horse to land painfully in the dirt.

He spat dirt out of his mouth, suppressing a groan from the pain that was his aching body. Horse riding lessons on top of sword fighting from sunup to sundown for weeks on end was taking a toll, but he pushed through it. He had to, he had no other choice.

Aramis had caught the reins of his runaway horse and approached him, wincing in sympathy.

They had been working together for about a month and a half now, and while Porthos wasn’t sure he’d describe them as friends, they were more or less friendly. Porthos didn’t mind Aramis was his only friend. He seemed to be the other man’s only friend as well. He still wasn’t sure why. While he was certainly glum around the other members of the regiment, he’d only been straightforward and patient with Porthos. He’d even gotten a few smiles out of the man from time to time.

“Insufferable animal,” Porthos growled. He glared at the horse over Aramis’ shoulder. The horse snorted in return.

“You should get back on. Don’t let the horse push you around.”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Porthos sighed. He rubbed at a knot in his thigh muscle. It was probably his 4th or 5th time falling, but he would never complain. Porthos never complained about pain, or the long hours Aramis was putting him through. Even after Aramis would quit for the evening, Porthos often practiced his sword strikes on the dummies in the yard. He was getting better, no doubt about it.

However, things were still not quite right between Porthos and the rest of the Musketeers. Porthos was now allowed to participate in sparring with others. When Aramis wasn’t around, the more junior members of the Musketeers would challenge him to sword fights, and then use their superior skills to toy with him. Porthos would grow frustrated and angry, and then resort to more…unconventional means.

Porthos was sure they were just threatened by a “street rat” becoming a Musketeer. Aramis was never outwardly disapproving, but he tried to tell him not to rise to the bait after he saw the third broken nose of a junior Musketeer.

Porthos had just grinned. “How am I gonna get better?”

But because he was getting better, the other men were looking for other ways to goad him. Porthos got back on his horse, starting on a slow walk around the ring. A group of about four junior members were there, and Porthos heard a snippet of their hushed conversation.

“-can’t be a Musketeer if he can’t even stay on a horse.” The other two snickered. Porthos ignored it, kicking, his horse into a trot, and remembering to keep his heels down and post in his saddle. He rode in a circle around the edge of the ring but overheard another part of the conversation as he rode by. “I’m surprised he’s not crushing the poor beast.”

Porthos rolled his eyes. It was clear they were stretching for insults.

On the next ride by, “You think the captain’s going to make it a habit picking out gutter trash to fill the ranks?” More snickering.

Porthos remained silent. It was nothing he hadn’t ever heard before. Clicking his tongue and squeezing his horse, he moved into a canter. He remembered to lean back in the saddle and keep his heels down. He grinned, and he caught Aramis giving an amused smile back.

*

*

*

It was four months that Porthos had been living in the Garrison before his skills were tested for real.

Treville had seen fit to send them on a courier mission outside of the city. It was actually Porthos’ first time out of Paris, and Aramis couldn’t help be moved by Porthos’ wonder at the wide open spaces for the first two days of their ride. They did a lot of camping since the weather was good and Aramis took the opportunity to teach Porthos not only about camping but wilderness in general. Porthos had trouble sleeping at night, nervous that every sound was a bear (even though Aramis assured him about two dozen times there weren’t bears in the lowlands).

The third night, they were both silent but comfortable with each other. Porthos was tending to the fire when he turned slowly towards Aramis.

“So…I think you know my story well enough,” He began. “But you’ve never much been forthcoming with yours. Why are you in this position?”

“Because I feel sorry for you?” Aramis joked. Porthos smiled knowing it was a joke. They were rare out of Aramis, but whenever he got one out of the melancholy man he felt a sense of pride welling up for breaking through his exterior.

“Nah. You’re too good to be a private tutor fulltime,” Porthos said. “What’s going on? Really?”

Aramis sighed, looking down, before he met Porthos’ eyes. “It’s been about a year, now. Since…” Aramis hesitated. He’d never spoken about Savoy out loud, except for the initial few days after the event when he had to tell Treville what he remembered. He took a deep breath and started again. “I was on a training exercise with 21 other men. 20 of them were killed. One disappeared.”

“You were the only survivor,” Porthos said. He didn’t look surprised or awed, just sympathetic.

Aramis nodded, taking a moment to find words again. “Afterwards, I had a hard time with…a lot of things.”

“I can imagine,” Porthos said. When Aramis remained silent, Porthos didn’t push. The mystery of Aramis was starting to make more sense.

Aramis for his part breathed slowly, squashing down memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He was thankful Porthos didn’t press the matter.

Porthos just nodded. “Thank you for telling me. It couldn’t have been easy.”

Aramis smiled back. “Well…putting up with me for this long, I think you deserve to know.” He shrugged. “Everyone else already does anyway.”

“Yeah, everyone else doesn’t exactly talk to me,” Porthos grumbled.

“It’s no fault of yours,” Aramis tried to assure him. “In all honestly, I find their behavior towards you utterly disgusting and unbefitting of our ranks.” He made no effort to hide his contempt.

“Nah,” Porthos shook his head. “Can’t blame ‘em for being afraid of something they don’t know anything about.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a remarkably positive attitude to have.”

“No use in trying to change someone’s mind when they’re not open to it. You can’t tell them. You just have to show them.”

Aramis shook his head, smiling. “You are quite remarkable.”

Porthos chuckled, leaning back against the tree he sat next to, and watching the sunset over the distant mountains. “Not as remarkable as this view, my friend.” He sighed contentedly. “If there was one thing I’m glad I left the Court of Miracles for, it was this.”

*

*

*

The very next day, they were ambushed.

A shot rang out, and Porthos’ horse screamed as it tumbled from its feet.

Porthos, now having had a lot of practice falling from horses, got his feet out of the stirrups and rolled clear of the huge beast so his leg wasn’t crushed. He drew his sword, right when four men ran out of the woods. They tried to rush Aramis on the horse, but he shot one through the chest easily. Porthos cut down another from behind.

At his companion’s mangled cry, one of the men spun to face Porthos, thrusting with his sword. Porthos parried with his own. The forms he had practiced over and over were now ingrained into his muscle memory, allowing him to block easily even as he left himself open when he made huge, savage sweeps. He kept his emotions in check even though he knew he was winning. It was his first real sword fight for his life; if he died now he _would_ be a failure. And worse, he would have failed Aramis.

Just then, Aramis’ voice called out a warning. Porthos parried another thrust, backing up quickly, trying to become more aware of his surroundings. Aramis was still on his horse, reloading his caliver, the fourth man dead at his horse’s feet. He had an anxious look on his face and was looking behind Porthos.

Porthos began to turn but then another shot rang out and white-hot pain exploded in Porthos’ shoulder. He sank to one knee with a cry. He brought his sword up, preparing to block the one opponent still on his feet, but another shot rang out. The man who had been about to charge him toppled over, dead.

Aramis cantered past him, caliver still smoking, as he drew his sword and rode down the man who had shot Porthos.

Porthos got shakily to his feet, holding his inured arm close to him. He smiled at Aramis who trotted up to him and then leapt down from his horse to inspect the wound.

“Never been shot before,” he grinned.

“It is a prestigious club,” Aramis said quietly as he peeled back the ripped part of Porthos’ jacket. Porthos hissed and Aramis cursed.

“The bullet is still in there. I’m going to have to take it out. But I can’t here. Can you ride?”

Porthos nodded. “Think so. Need some help getting up though.” Aramis nodded, reaching into his saddlebags for an extra shirt. He tore it into strips, wrapping up Porthos’ wound neatly. Through the whole ordeal, Porthos just breathed faster than normal, but gave no other outward signs of pain.

He helped Porthos into the saddle, pushing the larger man up when the use of one arm failed him. Porthos moaned, slumping forward, as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Aramis’ heart clenched with worry. It was still a few hours’ ride to the nearest town. While the bullet wouldn’t kill Porthos, the infection very well could.

“You ready?” he asked.

Porthos nodded in response, and they set off at a brisk walk.

*

*

*

Aramis had tried to talk to Porthos about various things on the journey, just to give the man something to focus on. Meaningless nonsense. How he joined the Musketeers, his favorite women he’d been with, some of the more interesting battles he’d been in. Porthos would comment occasionally for the first few hours, but by the last two he was completely slumped over in the saddle. Aramis kept a hand on his leg to keep him from falling off, as Porthos blinked warily and stared off into space. Despite the autumn chill, Porthos was sweating profusely.

The inn was within sight as Porthos pitched from the saddle with a final moan, dragging Aramis to the ground as the other man tried to catch him. A man nearby with a cart offered to help, and together they loaded Porthos on and brought him to the inn. Once there, Aramis spent two hours cleaning the wound, taking out the bullet, and sewing up his friend, but the damage was already done.

The room they were both now in was stifling. Aramis was trying to sweat Porthos’ fever out, but the larger man was shivering despite it all. As the hours passed by, Aramis had only grown more concerned and fearful. Aramis had spent the months after Savoy trying to keep people out, until he accidentally let Porthos in. Just when he was beginning to develop a fondness for the man, it seemed like God was going to take him away. Maybe it was God’s way of saying he couldn’t be close to anyone. If Porthos died now, Aramis thought it might destroy whatever sanity he had left.

And those were only Aramis’ selfish thoughts. Porthos himself had come so far in such a short time. He rose to every challenge he was faced with, laughed off adversity with a calm, jovial attitude Aramis had never even seen in anyone else. Aramis had never seen anyone more deserving of a spot on the King’s Musketeers.

Getting up, he rummaged through the bedside drawer, pulling out the Bible stuffed in the back. He hadn’t prayed since before Savoy but…

Porthos was worth praying for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' blade choice was based off this tumblr post:  
> http://notactuallythor.tumblr.com/post/79680043100/porthos-blade
> 
> And more weapons descriptions were found here (specifically, the Caliver):  
> http://radiophile.tumblr.com/post/79533370001/the-musketeers-costume-fighting-styles


	3. The Commission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the people at the Beta Branch for giving this the once-over.

Aramis didn’t sleep that night. Porthos’ shivers continued to wrack his body as the man mumbled in his sleep. Aramis prayed and wiped his brow and kept the fire in the room going. He also kept his wound clean, trying to flush away the infection. When he wasn’t actively tending to Porthos, he was praying, or reading out loud. He had a book of poetry with him, and he hoped his steady tone might give something for Porthos’ fevered brain to latch onto in the darkness.

He read and prayed and cared for Porthos through the morning and into the afternoon of the next day. He paused his reading to stare at the sun setting outside, at a loss for what to do next.

“Don’t…stop…”a hoarse voice whispered from behind him.

Aramis spun to see Porthos, eyes open and blinking sluggishly at him.

Aramis’ mouth split into a huge grin and barked a short, relieved laugh before scrambling over to Porthos’ bedside. He reached for the waterskin, holding it to Porthos’ lips so he could drink.

“God, Porthos!” Aramis sank back onto his heels as he helped Porthos drink. He gave another relieved laugh, unable to stop himself.

Porthos let the water skin fall, smiling slightly. “Not a…god,” he whispered. “Thanks, though.”

Aramis gripped his shoulder tightly. “Get some rest. The worst is over.”

Porthos’ eyes were already beginning to droop shut, but Aramis could tell it was a natural sleep and not a fevered sleep. Porthos lips moved and Aramis leaned forward to hear his whispered words:

“For both…of us…it seems.”

*

*

*

It took Porthos a few days to recover, the bullet and then the fever having sapped his strength. Trapped in bed and frustrated with boredom, Aramis offered him a book.

“Can’t read,” Porthos mumbled.

Aramis blinked in surprised. Porthos had been so steadfast in his learning of physical traits, it hadn’t even occurred to Aramis he might not have learned to read in the Court and certainly didn’t have time since he joined the Musketeers.

“Well of course not, you’ve had no time to learn,” Aramis said smiling easily. “But we have some time now, right?”

Porthos glanced up at him, clearing his throat. “Spose we do,” he said slowly.

Aramis pulled over a stool next to the bed, spreading some parchment upon it so Porthos could see.

After three days, they were ready to ride again. Porthos’ arm was still stiff, so they took it slowly. Aramis gave Porthos pages to practice reading out of books to pass the time. Treville wasn’t expecting them for some time, even not including Porthos’ injury. So they rode slow and when Porthos couldn’t practice swordsmanship, he practiced reading.

It took them five days to get back to Paris, but Porthos was healthy, and recovering swiftly. Treville seemed unsurprised by the events, but didn’t object when Aramis followed Porthos everywhere after that. They did everything together and Treville was happy to see Aramis starting to smile more easily and frequently.

Their friendship cemented so fully over the next few months, they came to be trouble makers in their spare time, and Treville had to send them on more missions more frequently. Which they always completed.

Treville had no doubt any week now an assignment from the King or the Cardinal would come down the ranks and he would assign Aramis and Porthos to it. Porthos was due for a commission soon.

But then Athos came.

Athos was like a choppy sea when a storm was coming in. Mesmerizing, but everything about him said “stay away”. The rapier was like an extension of his arm. The first week, Aramis and Porthos watched, stunned, as he dispatched every challenger with brutal speed and efficiency. It was impossible to tell why he was here. The man was a mystery. The other Musketees didn’t engage with Porthos because he was different. They stayed away from Athos because they were afraid.

“Think he’s nobility?” Porthos asked one day as they were both cleaning their pistols.

“Why do you say that?”” Aramis asked lightly.

Porthos shrugged. “Seems a pretty remorseless type. Only people I’ve met like that are thieves and nobility. And considering how much coin he puts away on drink, I don’t think he’s a thief.”

Aramis laughed lightly.

“Maybe he’s a pirate,” Aramis guessed three days later as they watched Athos practice his shooting.

Next to him, Porthos snorted. “Why would a pirate want to work for the king?”

“Better pay?” Smiled Aramis.

“Not likely.”

“Better women?”

“Almost certainly.”

The two of them were content to leave Athos a mystery. He had nothing to do with them, and it was clear he didn’t want anything to do with anyone else. Porthos pursued his training steadily, including his reading while also instructing Aramis in hand to hand combat.

Treville saw fit to put them on a mission with two other men, but both of them were surprised when Treville assigned Athos to lead. As far as they knew, Athos hadn’t even gone on any missions with other people, much less led one.

It took them two surly days of pulling a wagon and horses through mud and rain to get to Chartres, but once they were there it didn’t take long to round up the revolutionaries they had been sent to arrest. Athos hadn’t spoken much with anyone, and Porthos and Aramis unconsciously turned to each other to lighten the mood. They made obnoxious jokes or complained loudly about the weather, all with the intent of trying to get some reaction out of Athos. The man remained utterly stoic, keeping his own company at the front of the group.

The river the road was next to was beginning to flood its banks from the heavy rain. Most of the way, the road was above the river, but the water was dark and brown and moving swiftly, licking dangerously at the roadside.

They crested a rise, looking down to see the road washed out.

“There’s no other way around,” Aramis rode up next to Athos.

“We have to make it back to Paris tonight,” Athos mumbled, looking over the shivering and miserable musketeers. He frowned in frustration.

“We could try wading it. It can’t be more than a few feet deep over the road, the horses and the cart could handle that easily.” Porthos rode up next to them, his eyes trailing uncertainly over the muddy water.

Athos glanced back at them, and then looked resolved. “Alright. You two will ride behind the wagon, help push it. The three of us will pull from the front.”

They rode down the hill, the horses fidgeting slightly at the high water. Athos and the other two men went in first, the water quickly covering their boots and the horses’ chests. The cart slogged through, the prisoners inside complaining it was flooding quickly.

There was a huge thump, and the cart lurched to a halt. Aramis and Porthos moved to either side, trying to push it. A huge branch floating by made Aramis’ horse shy and dart backwards. Aramis spoke in soothing tones, urging it forward through the water. He was almost back to the wagon when the horse stumbled in some uneven sinkhole, pitching Aramis forward over its neck. Before Porthos could move, one of the prisoners had grabbed a floating branch hit Aramis over the head with it.

Aramis tumbled off his horse, bobbing to the surface, unmoving except for the current swiftly pulling him downstream.

“ARAMIS!” Porthos kicked his horse forward. He growled at the prisoners taking the opportunity to pull Aramis’ horse to them. They were trying to escape, but Porthos couldn’t handle them without losing sight of Aramis. “Athos! They’re escaping! I’m going after Aramis!” He didn’t wait for Athos’ response, but surged forward.

He felt the moment his horse was swimming instead of walking, and he sank up to his chest in the water. They were in the thick of the river now, but they were gaining on Aramis. His face at least was turned skyward so he wasn’t drowning that Porthos could see. Aramis got caught on a tree limb, allowing Porthos to catch up with him. Porthos reached out, trying to grab his friend, but his fingers were numb and wet. His horse, not able to tread water, kept swimming forward. In desperation, Porthos twisted in the saddle grabbing for Aramis. His gloved hands wrapped around his friend’s armor just as Porthos felt himself lose his balance and slip into the muddy waters.

He surged to the surface, clutching Aramis, and then remembering he didn’t know how to swim. He struggled and kicked as the current pulled them away from his horse. Porthos sputterd, mouth full of nasty-tasting water as he tried to move Aramis’ head on his own shoulder and keep them both afloat. His legs hit tree limbs and over debris, making him grunt, but he somehow kept himself afloat.

Until his back slammed into a rocky embankment, making him see stars as his head shortly followed. He slipped beneath the surface for a moment, dully realizing a second later he still clutched Aramis’ chest. He kicked upwards, coughing, trying to grab onto the rocks. He panted for breath, trying to keep his own head and Aramis’ above the water as he surveyed the bank around him. They were caught under an overhang, a huge dead branch blocking their escape. There was no way Porthos could pull himself out and up onto shore without letting go of Aramis.

Porthos was at a loss, when suddenly he heard shouting from above him. “He-” he coughed, then tried again. “Here!”

Athos’ head appeared upside from the top of the embankment. He took in their situation, and extended his arm over the tree blocking them in. “Take my hand!”

Porthos coughed, clutching Aramis’ motionless body to him tightly. “Can’t! I can’t let him go!”

“I cannot pull you both, you will have to let go or risk losing both your lives!”

Porthos’ head dipped underwater as another wave surged into the embankment, pushing him back against the rock. He came up again, sputtering. “I won’t let him drown!”

“You will _both_ drown if you do not take my hand!”

Porthos shook his head again, and Athos gave a curse of frustration. He pulled his hand back, disappearing back over the top of the embankment.

Porthos was shocked. Would the other man leave them both to their fate so quickly? They weren’t friends by any means, but did their lives mean so little to this man? “No,” he coughed, before his surprise turned to anger. “NO!”

He’d failed Aramis, failed them both.

He didn’t have time to think about it anymore because there was a loud groan of wood bending, followed by a snap. The tree trunk broke and half of it came flying at him with the force of the current. He turned, trying to shield Aramis, and felt the wood claw at his back. That was immediately followed by the hot sensation of pain, and the sting as dirty water ran into his wounds. He hissed and looked up, trying to see if the way was clear.

What he saw instead was a rope drop over the side of the embankment, followed by Athos’ head yet again.

“Wrap the rope under his arms. I’ll hold him while you climb to safety!”

Porthos nodded tiredly, grabbing at the rope with numb fingers. He looped it around his friend, making sure the knots held. After he tested them, he slowly let go. The rope went taught, with Athos holding it.

“Hurry!” Athos shouted, holding out one hand to him while holding onto the rope with the other.

Porthos pushed off the rocky wall, grabbing his hand. With a grunt, Athos pulled him out from under the embankment, dragging him to where some thick roots were coming out of the ground. Porthos grabbed them immediately, struggling to pull himself up. Athos began reeling in the rope, reaching out as soon as he could touch Aramis’ head. He made sure to keep the unconscious man’s face above the water, holding him right below him.

“You have to help me,” he grunted. Porthos nodded hastily, muscles shaking as he pulled himself onto land. He pushed himself up, and leaned over to help haul Aramis out of the water. All three collapsed onto the grass above the river. Porthos and Athos were both breathing heavily before Athos sat up and listened for Aramis’ breaths.

“He’s breathing. What happened?”

“Hit on…the head by…prisoners…” Porthos panted, trembling slightly.

Athos nodded. “Two escaped, but I managed to capture the third.”

“The others?” Porthos asked.

Athos shook his head. “After you went after Aramis, there was a surge. All of our horses got swept up in it. I got to safety, but the others…”

Porthos turned his head slightly, surprised to see the despondent look on Athos’ face. “Nothing you could have done,” Porthos found himself saying, trying to console the man. “Thank you for saving us.”

Athos looked at him surprised. “Why do you think I would do any differently?”

Porthos hesitated, but was saved an answer by a low moan from Aramis. He scrambled forward as Aramis’ eyes opened blearily, blinking as rain continued to fall on his face. “Porthos?” he asked warily.

Porthos’ face split into a huge grin. “One of these days you gotta teach me to swim.”

Aramis, looking even more confused, tilted his head to see Athos splayed out on the ground next to them. “Are you alright?” Athos asked.

Aramis grimaced. “Head hurts. I’m wet. Cold.”

A relieved look spread over Porthos’ face. “If you are complaining it must be bearable.”

Aramis groaned rolling over.

Athos ushered them up. After all, they were all freezing, exhausted, had a prisoner to attend to, and it was still at least eight hours back to Paris. It was a slow, arduous process, and for most of the time they remained silent. Porthos’ back burned, but the wounds weren’t that deep, and Aramis seemed relatively steady on his feet. Athos seemed in best shape of them all, so he walked with the prisoner in front of them.

When they reached the gates of Paris, Athos found a messenger to go ahead to the garrison and inform Captain Treville of their impending arrival. Three Musketeers rode out to meet them, taking the prisoner off their hands and bringing fresh horses for them to ride through the city on. They had their wounds tended to once clean, and all three fell into a deep sleep for the rest of the day.

Aramis woke to the sound of knocking on his door. He sat up slowly, head still aching a little, but generally feeling much better now that he was dry and had slept for almost a full day. “Enter,” he grumbled.

Captain Treville came in. “Better get dressed. The King has sent for you.”

Aramis shook his head, not sure he had heard correctly. “The King?”

“Yes, for you, Athos and Porthos. He wants to congratulate you all on a job well done. Best not keep him waiting.” Treville smiled, closing the door as he left while Aramis scrambled for his clothes.

The three of them, once dressed, rode to the palace. Athos maintained a stony silence while Aramis and Porthos smiled and grinned at each other. Aramis was sure today was the day Porthos would get his commission. He’d been here over a year, had worked harder than anyone, and yesterday had shown admirable bravery. He kept slapping Porthos on the back while the large man gave him embarrassed grins in return.

They waited during the proceedings of the Royal Court, silent and twitchy. Finally, the King called for them to approach.

“I heard about the astounding events of your journey,” he started. “Truly an astounding sequence of events. It must have been thrilling,” the King mused. Aramis glanced at Porthos with just a slightly raised eyebrow.

“It was indeed, your Grace,” Aramis said lightly. Porthos bit his lip furiously to keep from smiling.

“Olvier d’Athos de la Fére, step forward.” Athos hesitated, but stepped forward to kneel before the King.

“For your commendable bravery in the face of adversity, for risking your life to save your fellow soldiers, and for bringing a criminal to justice,”Aramis watched, uncomprehendingly, as the King drew the sword that was handed to him by one of his officials. He stood, walking up to Athos.

Aramis couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping in shock as the sword blade touched both of Athos’ shoulders. He spared a glance at Porthos who looked equally crestfallen.

“Rise, a King’s Musketeer.” The King smiled down at Athos, who stood slowly. Two more Musketeers came forward with the engraved pauldron of the Fleur De Lis. As they slipped it over Athos’ arm, Aramis turned to look at Porthos again. The other man was staring at the floor, but trying to smile for Athos’ sake.

He was failing miserably.

“My…my sincerest thanks, Your Grace,” Athos said quietly, bowing.

The entire room burst out into polite applause. Porthos and Aramis got to their feet. Porthos was the first to offer Athos a sincere handshake, while Aramis offered him a stiff one. Athos, for his part, still looked confused and more than a little overwhelmed.

Aramis sank back into the crowd, and his heart broke as he watched Porthos try to look happy for a man he didn’t know.


	4. The Musketeer

Aramis threw the door open to Captain Treville’s office. Treville looked up from his desk, but said nothing. Aramis stormed over, slamming his hands onto the table. “That was supposed to be Porthos’ commission,” he growled.

Treville sighed. “It’s not _anyone’s_ commission, it is for the King to give to whom he sees fit. I’m sorry Porthos was not also recognized, but I’m not going to steal something that Athos earned away from him.”

Aramis stood up straight and spun away, hands running through his hair in a gesture of frustration. “You knew.”

“I suspected. Despite singing Porthos’ praises in the King’s ear, I suppose the King and Athos are somewhat familiar already.” Treville leaned back and sighed. “Porthos will get his commission. He’s worked harder than anyone else here, and has had three times as much to learn. He’s a good man, and I have no doubt the King will see that soon.”

“You didn’t have to see his face,” Aramis said softly.

“I know Porthos must be angry-”

“He’s not!” Aramis cut him off. “He’s trying to be supportive of Athos, all the while just saying he has to work harder! How much harder can he work?”

Treville leveled a gaze at Aramis. “I told him before he joined this was how it may have been. And unfortunately, I am not surprised to see I may have been right. He knows as well. The commission will come when it comes, Aramis. In the meantime, just be supportive of him. And don’t hate Athos. This wasn’t his fault.”

Aramis sighed, shoulders slumping, knowing his captain was right. “Alright.” He narrowed his eyes at Treville. “But the man makes it rather hard.”

Treville leaned back. “Just like anyone, he has his own set of demons. You should be able to understand that better than most. And he _did_ save your lives.”

Aramis let out a resigned sigh, before opening the door to leave. “Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it,” he grumbled.

There was the customary commission celebration that night. The Musketeers all poured into The Fox, driving the locals away. Everyone congratulated Athos, buying him a drink. Athos thanked each person politely before tucking heartedly into the ale.

Aramis and Porthos were somber, each drinking their ale slowly. Finally, Porthos put his coins on the table. “Gonna get some sleep,” he mumbled. Aramis nodded, recognizing his friend’s need for space. He stayed for about an hour longer, before he also stood to leave. Athos made eye contact with him as he was about to exit. Aramis tipped his hat politely and left.

When he returned to the garrison, he wasn’t surprised to see Porthos there, furiously practicing blows on one of the dummies. Porthos was so engrossed on his task, he took no notice of Aramis quietly climbing the stairs to the balcony above him. Aramis sat vigil over his friend.

He was surprised to see Athos wander back shortly afterward. He was moving sluggishly but surprisingly well considering how much drink Aramis had seen him take. He moved behind Porthos, and Aramis was ready to say something when Athos cleared his throat softly.

Porthos spun, clearly on edge, but lowered his fists when he saw who it was.

“I…” Athos’ tongue was heavy with wine. “…do not deserve this.” His hand fumbled at his spauldron in an effort to unclasp it.

“Woah, hey,” Porthos said moving forward. He grabbed the shorter man’s hands, steadying him. Aramis watched as Porthos looked at Athos, legitimately concerned. “Are you alright?”

“I _stole_ it from you,” Athos moaned.

Porthos smiled lightly at him. “Naw. You earned it. You saved me and Aramis when you could’ve died. We owe you our lives.”

“I am undeserving of your gratitude. I shouldn’t be here, this was a mistake.” Athos was looking increasingly distressed. “I have to leave, h-have to…” Athos looked lost and he tried to stumble away from Porthos’ grip. The large man just pulled him into a tight embrace he couldn’t escape from. Athos shuddered, before he sagged in the larger man’s grip.

“Aramis?” Porthos called.

Aramis, still slightly stunned from watching the whole exchange, hurried down the steps, and helped Porthos take Athos’ limp body. It was clear now Treville had been right.

“Against all belief, I am starting to pity him,” Aramis said softly. They carried him to his room in the barracks. Athos thrashed weakly as they lay him down, helping strip him of his boots and armor. He mumbled incoherently. “Well, that’s done.” Aramis said, turning to leave.

Porthos frowned, but didn’t move.

“What is it?”

Porthos shook his head. “I don’t think we should leave him.”

Aramis tilted his head backwards in exasperation. “My guess is this isn’t the first time he couldn’t hold his drink. He can take care of himself.”

“We owe him our lives, Aramis.” Porthos said sternly. “The least we can do is look out for his.”

Aramis sighed, smiling slightly. “When you’re right you’re right. I’ll get us some books.”

Aramis was only sick a few times until the morning, mostly mumbling incoherently. When he finally came around a few hours after dawn, he moaned in pain. Porthos was asleep on the table, snoring loudly, but Aramis came awake at the sound. Athos rolled, holding his head. Aramis pushed a cup of water towards him.

Athos stilled at the motion, only just seeming to realize there were people in his room with him.

“Drink this,” Aramis urged him.

Athos’ fingers fumbled around the cup, but he managed to grip it and bring it to his lips. After a long swig, he wiped his mouth. “I am undeserving of your kindness,” he said softly.

“I recall you seeming to say something similar last night,” Aramis said, equally quietly so as not to disturb Porthos.

“That’s because it was true then too.”

Aramis smiled wryly. “You are a Musketeer, and whatever you have done in the past, Porthos seems to trust you. He does not hold it against you that you received a commission.”

Athos looked up, meeting Aramis’ eyes. “Do you?”

Aramis didn’t reply.

“I see,” Athos said, looking down.

“Only because I cannot hold it against my King. That would be treason, you see.” Aramis leveled a gaze at Athos who met his eyes with surprise. “Prove me wrong. Porthos,” he stood, shaking the other man’s shoulder.

Porthos came to with a start and a grunt, looking around and rubbing his hand over one eye. When he saw that Athos was awake and mostly coherent, he nodded sagely. He stood up, clapping Athos on the back. “See you around, yeah?”

Athos nodded dumbly as both Aramis and Porthos tipped their hats in salute. It wasn’t a rejection for friendship, but wasn’t quite an invitation.

That would come later.

A week went by, and Aramis and Porthos found themselves exiting a tavern in high spirits. Their coin purses were full (Attributing to Porthos’ sleight of hand), and they’d even managed to insult the Red Guards while doing it. As they moved up the street, drunk on wine and winnings, Aramis noticed a few of the guards were trailing them.

“We have a tail,” Aramis said quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

Porthos snorted. “Not bein’ very subtle about it,” he slurred.

The Red Guards, maybe getting bored with following them, finally issued a challenge. “Hey, Half-Breed!”

Aramis froze, eyes wide.

“Just let it go, Aramis.” Porthos was shaking his head minutely. “It’s not worth it.”

“I will _not_ stand here and let them insult you to your face!” Aramis hissed.

Porthos shrugged. “It’s true, though.”

Aramis was about to say something about the _intention_ , when he was interrupted by another shout.

“How long are you going to keep your pet mongrel around before you get tired of it?” There was snickering.

“Let it go, Aramis,” Porthos said quietly. “We’ll be the instigators if we start a fight on the street. ‘Sides, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” Porthos actually did look unbothered, even if he did look a bit…weary, Aramis decided. Aramis would never not be surprised that the best brawler in the regiment had the best ability of them all to keep a cool head.

Aramis let out a sigh and nodded.

“Who was the man that took your mother, eh? Did he fuck the bitch right on the ship, or did he at least wait to haul her to the gutter first?”

Aramis felt the blood rush from his face. He turned slightly to his companion and saw Porthos’ eyes widen, the larger man trembling slightly. Aramis spun, fully intent on skewering the man, but someone else was there first.

Athos must have come from somewhere behind the guards, because he tapped the man who had shouted at Porthos on the shoulder. The man turned, bewildered, before he punched him in the face. Aramis distinctly heard the sounds of bone breaking.

“And here I thought Parisians were open-minded,” he said dryly, shaking out his fist. “I heard wrong, I suppose.”

Aramis and Porthos stood as stunned as the other two red guards, watching their companion wail on the ground, clutching his face which was bleeding profusely. One recovered his wits enough to take a mad swing at Athos who ducked it easily. In an instant he had drawn his sword, pressing the point against the man’s neck.

“I suggest you leave,” he said very quietly. The unspoken threat oozed from his voice, giving even Aramis a chill. “I am not above breaking the law.” With a flourish, he withdrew his sword. The two men helped their injured friend off, and scurried off into the night.

As Athos sheathed his sword, the other men realized he was not wearing his uniform.

“It’s bad form to draw your sword in the street,” Aramis said, tone joking.

Athos shrugged. “I was only commissioned a week ago; they’ll start recognizing me soon enough. In the meantime, I aim to use my anonymity to my advantage, and this was an instance where I felt it was warranted.” He nodded at Porthos, who gave a fake pout.

“Don’t need a drunk and a womanizer sticking up for me,” he grumbled, but it was good-natured.

“You can tell us that when you get thrown into a prison cell,” Aramis said.

“I’ll tell you that when _you_ get thrown in one!” Porthos retorted. Unspoken, they waited for Athos to fall in line with them as they returned to the garrison. He did, and as simply as that the unspoken invitation was accepted.

*

*

*

It seemed that on top of saving their lives and defending Porthos unasked, Athos had found a place in their friendship. The duo soon became a trio. On missions, Porthos and Aramis easily let Athos be the natural, stoic leader he was. In the city, they drank together (though Athos drank quite a bit more than the other two), looked out for each other, and generally caused trouble together.

Porthos was becoming more at ease with the regiment, and they were becoming more at ease with him. His easy-going nature was beginning to shine now that he was more at ease, and the other Musketeers took to it naturally. Aramis had become far more outgoing, eventually getting back to wooing the women of Paris in his spare time. Athos said more than two words at a time in public and while other members of the regiment were still nervous around him, everyone respected him.

Their personal backstories seemed to be unimportant in the wake of their newfound friendship with each other. But occasionally things got out into the open.

As they spent more time together, it became nearly impossible to keep secrets from each other. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the silent hours of the night.

Aramis dreamed of the massacre at Savoy. It happened most often when they were camping in the forests. He would jolt awake in a cold sweat, scrambling out of his bedroll and away from his sleeping companions, seeing only dead bodies. Porthos and Athos would come awake, trying to talk him out of his trances. Porthos would extend a warm hand to his shoulder, and only then would Aramis startle back into reality. Dead bodies had no warmth.

Athos drank a lot, but only rarely would lose total control over himself. Porthos and Aramis would share worried glances during these times, taking turns mopping his brow as he cried out a man’s name (a man they eventually learned had been his brother). It was when Athos was at his most emotional and his most vulnerable. Porthos and Aramis would see the shame and self-loathing on his face but instead of comforting him, they’d just sit quietly at his side. Athos took comfort in their steadiness, rather than emotional words.

By contrast, Porthos dreamed in subtleties. They fluctuated on two central themes: being left alone or leaving someone else alone. Even when Porthos’ mother was alive, she was constantly sick, leaving him to learn things on his own. When she died, he was totally alone, learning to fend for himself on the streets of Paris. In some of his dreams, he was consumed by despair and fear, unsure if he would live to the next day. He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or a memory anymore, but he found himself often on the dirty wooden floor in another person’s shack of a home, holding her cold, lifeless hand. He cried because he loved her, but he also cried because he was terrified of what would happen next.

In other dreams, Charon and Flea stared at him silently and accusingly. He had left them behind, left them alone when a better opportunity arose. He was terrified his new Musketeer brothers would find out what he had done, especially in the face of their all too real past traumas. He dreamed they saw him as weak, and would abandon him. Even if he gave into his cowardly urges and abandoned them first, he’d have nowhere else to go. His dreams fed on those insecurities and constantly pushed them back in his face. He felt ashamed when he thought of his own nightmares, especially after watching both of his brothers battle theirs.

It was one such dream that woke him one night when the three of them were returning from a mission in Southern France. Beside him, Aramis snored softly, and he could feel the dying heat of the embers from their campfire on his face. As he turned over in his bedrool, Athos, who had been keeping watch, spoke softly. “Bad dreams?”

Porthos turned back over to look at him. “Nah.” He tried to smile, but he knew it wasn’t as convincing as he wanted it to be. In his dream, he had been a child again and starving. He was weak and in pain and everywhere Flea and Charon’s faces stared at him silently. At every twist and turn in the streets they were there, until finally Charon spoke. _You left us to die, brother._

Athos looked unconvinced. His eyes glanced at Porthos, then returned to the dark woods around them. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Porthos pulled the bedroll tighter around himself. “Nothing to talk about. Dreams are dreams, is all. They’re not real.”

“They’re real enough for him,” Athos inclined his head towards the still sleeping Aramis. “For me.”

Porthos didn’t meet his eyes. “My dreams aren’t anything like that. They’re not important.”

“Porthos, you have never before compared yourself to any man. Why is this different? You’ve led a harder life than any of us, and for less reward. Do not diminish your own experiences based on ours.”

There was a moment of silence between them, as Porthos reflected on his words. “You’re surprisingly astute, for a drunk,” Porthos joked.

Athos smiled. “I’m not drunk now.”

“Oh, shall I tell Aramis the good news?”

“If you both don’t stop having noisy heart to heart conversations when I’m trying to sleep, you won’t have to tell me anything,” Aramis moaned.

He added sluggishly a minute later, “Because you’ll be dead.”

Another minute passed by, and Aramis mumbled “Because I’ll kill you.”

Porthos grinned, falling into an easy sleep.

*

*

*

A few weeks later the four of them along with a few other Musketeers were accompanying the King on a hunting party. This mostly entailed a lot of boredom as the huge party stalked through the woods, scaring off most of the game. Not to mention, King Louis talked loudly and often.

It was all rather dull to Porthos. He was a man of action, not really this silently waiting for something to come in range. Aramis had that pleased look on his face he got whenever he was in nature, despite the King and his party taking shots at said nature now and again. Athos pretty much always had one continuous expression on his face.

Porthos didn’t begrudge the King for taking up a hobby. After all, he was the ruler of France, Porthos figured he’d earned the right to do what he wanted on his own lands. Actually, the more interesting thing was that he didn’t seem to be that good at it. Porthos could definitely see some of the other members of the party pretending to be worse shots than King Louis. They were lucky the King didn’t ask the Musketeers to partake; Porthos wasn’t sure Aramis would be able to hold back his pride for the sake of the King’s.

As if Aramis knew what he had been thinking, the other man’s hand slowly wrapped around the grip of his pistol. He wasn’t looking in the direction of the King’s party though, he was looking behind them. Porthos sidled up next to him. “Something wrong?” he asked quietly. Athos, towards the front of the party, noticed them conversing and raised his eyebrows as if to ask what the matter was.

“Do you hear that?”

Porthos listened, but all he could hear was the rustling of leaves in the forest from a slight wind. “I don’t hear anything.”

Aramis glanced at him, face creased with worry. “Exactly.”

Porthos turned from him, eyes scanning the forest around them. It had indeed gone silent. He couldn’t hear any of the birds or rodents that had seemed so prevalent earlier. He was just reaching for his own pistol when movement caught his eye. Leaves, 40 meters ahead, shifting the wrong direction, away from the wind.

Before he could call out a warning, the deafening sound of gunfire punched through the wall of serenity that had been there a moment earlier.

Porthos and Aramis both shot their pistols in the direction of the gunpowder smoke, being rewarded with a yell. Porthos sprinted to the King’s party. Two Musketeers had fallen, along with a nobleman. Athos was shouting orders. He and the other three Musketeers who were still alive drew their swords and formed a protective circle around the King and the rest of the party. Athos made eye contact with Porthos briefly, as six men in black poured out of the woods.

“Find the shooters!” Porthos nodded, Aramis at his side as their blades clashed with the first wave of men. Porthos blocked a downward thrust with his sword, and drew the dagger nestled in the small of his back with his other hand. He stabbed his attacker in the stomach before the man could recover. He ran ahead, bursting through a pile of underbrush like a storm. He saw one man loading his musket for a second round of fire. Porthos roared (taking small pleasure when the man made a face like he just ruined his pants), and lunged forward. The man blocked his sweep with his musket, and Porthos immediately followed with a thrust the man couldn’t block in time. He cried out, clutching his wound and falling to the ground.

Porthos caught movement out of the corner of his eye and spun. His sword blocked a swing meant for his torso. The man who must have been one of the shooters judging from the musket on the ground near his feet was faster than his companion. He and Porthos exchanged a flurry of blows, low quick strikes meant to incapacitate for the final blow. As they moved, Porthos felt a thick tree suddenly against his back. Instead of parrying the next blow, he turned. The man’s sword lodged in the thick tree limb where his head had been a second earlier. Porthos slammed his own blade down on the other man’s, trapping it against the tree, but the man let go of his sword and dropped to the ground. He kicked one of Porthos’ legs out from under him, and drew his knife as Porthos stumbled. Porthos couldn’t block so he lunged backwards away from the knife. It wasn’t far enough though, and he felt the knife slice a line of fire up the left side of his face.

He screamed, training momentarily forgotten as he fell sideways. He brought one hand to his face, desperately trying to cover it. He tried to keep the eye that rapidly wasn’t filling up with blood on his enemy. He kicked out savagely and heard a grunt of pain has his boot hit the other man’s shin, hard. He scrambled backwards, his free hand searching for a weapon on the ground. The other man, now on the ground, struggled after him, trying to stab his feet with the knife. Porthos pulled his foot out of the way before sending another kick at the man’s nose. He didn’t block, and Porthos saw blood gush out when the man’s head snapped backwards.

Porthos heard footsteps, and then Aramis was there, plunging his sword into the man’s back. He took a moment to make sure he was dead, before kneeling next to Porthos who was breathing raggedly, his fingers trembling slightly as Aramis pulled them away from the wound.

“’s not bad,” he said, voice more shaky than he would have liked.

“Porthos, I can’t even tell how deep this is, there’s so much blood. Did it hit your eye?” Aramis’ voice was soaked with concern.

“Dunno, don’t care,” Porthos growled, lunging to his feet. “Did you get the other one?”

Aramis nodded.

“We need to get back to the king.” Porthos walked past the dead man on the ground, picking up his sword and jogging back through the woods.

Porthos ignored the burning of his face as he burst through the woods again. They took a moment to survey the situation. Athos and another Musketeer were fighting six men, the remaining Musketeer and the hunting party doing their best to shepherd and shield the King further down the path, with three more men on their tail.

Athos caught sight of them. “The King!” he shouted. He had to block a vicious strike and immediately after, a second one by another man.

“Help them,” Porthos growled before sprinting in the direction of the King. Aramis didn’t have time to argue.

Porthos must have made a fearful sight, charging at them like a bear, face covered in blood, and roaring at the top of his lungs. He barreled into the first man, flipping him over his hip before the other man even knew what had happened. He screamed as Porthos slashed a fatal wound across his chest.

The second man turned, swinging his sword at Porthos. Porthos parried, bringing his sword up and around in an arc and trapping his opponent’s sword against the ground. He stomped down, snapping the blade in half with his sheer power. The other man, being quick on the draw, pulled his pistol out as all of his defenses were lowered. Porthos dodged sideways, but still felt the bite of the bullet as it grazed his side, just above his hip.

He staggered, collapsing to one knee, as the other man drew a dagger from his belt. But Porthos still had his own dagger. In one, quick motion he had pulled it out and launched it at the man’s stomach when he swung his arm across his chest. It hit home, and the man fell to his knees with a wet gasp.

Porthos pushed himself up, then kicked the man all the way down. The world spun, and his head felt vaguely detached from his body, but he saw there was still one more man fighting with one of the noblemen to get to the King. The last Musketeer that had been defending them was dead on the path.

He picked up his sword and surged forward. The man heard him and spun, slashing his sword in front of Porthos. Porthos blocked it, but as soon as he did the man had pulled away and attacked again. Porthos barely got his sword up in time, and the man continued his relentless pace. Every blow Porthos blocked was barely completed before the man was pulling away and attacking a new one. It didn’t help that Porthos could only see out of one eye, blocking his blindside attacks slowly. The man barely landed some hits on him, but it was on his armor. Still, Porthos’ fatigue was beginning to increase, and the 4th or 5th time, he was slow enough on the parry that the man’s sword sliced through his armor on his arm and into the flesh underneath.

He growled, backing away, and the man pressed his attack. While they were both running out of energy, Porthos was flagging faster and he knew it. The next low block, Porthos ducked to the ground, grabbing a rock, and chucked it at the man’s face.

His opponent had been entirely not prepared for the abrupt change in tactic, and the rock clipped him in the temple. Porthos was immediately behind it, energy seemingly renewed as he pressed the attack. He got in an attack close enough that he was within arm’s reach of the other man. When their swords locked between them, Porthos kicked out, hitting the him in the knee. The man grunted but kept his feet and Porthos threw his head forward in a vicious headbutt.

It sent them both reeling, but Porthos recovered first. He stumbled towards the still stunned man, then threw a punch that had all his power behind it. The man crumpled to the ground and Porthos followed, not able to keep his feet. The man was unconscious, and Porthos looked around for more danger. His vision was swimming now, and he saw everything in pairs. Someone was running at him, and the heat of bloodlust still consumed him. He tried to pull himself to his feet again, tried to get his sword in front of him. His left leg felt wet and heavy, and hot pain radiated from his torso right above it. He cursed his body for betraying him, he still had to protect the king!

The new man ran up to him, throwing his hands up and shouting Porthos’ name. Confused, Porthos let his sword fall. He vaguely recognized the blurry figure as Aramis, and blinked in confusion.

“Porthos, that’s it! We got them all, the King is safe,” Aramis assured him.

He smiled in relief, trying to turn to make sure everyone behind him was alright. The scenery tilted with the movement and didn’t stop. He found himself being caught before he hit the ground, and looked into the concerned eyes of Aramis. Porthos frowned as he took notice of the dark, wet patch on Aramis’ sleeve. “You? Athos?”

Aramis gave him a tight smile. “Fine. Athos has a gash on his leg and can barely walk, but with stitches it can be taken care of. You?”

“Just…wonderful,” Porthos grinned. His open eye began to slide shut, and with it the pain all over his body began to lesson. His last sight before a rushing in his ears and darkness consumed him was Aramis looking fearful and shouting to someone.

*

*

*

Porthos was distantly aware of at some point being lifted onto a cart and bumping along through the woods back to the palace. He drifted in and out, picking up snatches of conversation. But he didn’t pay it any attention as his body ached from exhaustion and stung all over from various wounds. His memory jumped from that to a dark room that was small and cold despite it being summer.

_Servant’s quarters,_ his mind supplied. Somewhere deep within the bowels of the palace. His face burned, his side burned, his arms burned and his leg burned. He didn’t remember even being wounded in the leg. He must have missed that completely during the fight.

He tried sitting up, the pain in his side intensifying and stinging sharply. He winced, pulling the bedclothes away to get a better look at it. It had already been wrapped in a fresh bandage, but that had already turned a light shade of pink over the bullet graze. His arm was similarly wrapped. His face stung every time he made an expression, and he reached up to feel the stitches first on his cheek, then on his forhead. His eye seemed to be fine though, blessedly.

Aramis came in right in the middle of his self-examination, and a panicked look crossed his face. “Don’t _touch_ those!”

Porthos grunted, but lowered his hands.

Aramis took a cup off the table that was full of water. “Here, drink this. We’ll have to go back to the barracks soon, and you lost not a little blood. The King’s physician has already looked at you, and the maids are already cleaning your uniform. The King was…” Aramis looked thoughtful, tapping his finger to his chin. “…rather impressed with your tactics.”

Porthos flipped the bedclothes the rest of the way off his body. He stiffly swung his legs over the side. “Is Athos alright?”

“Fine. He’s in another empty room. I already stitched him up while the physician was with you. Although, I did do your face,” he gestured to his own cheek. “I’ve actually had more experience sewing up wounds than he has. The King doesn’t suffer many battle wounds.”

Porthos nodded. “Think it’ll scar?”

“Absolutely. But I think it’ll look rather dashing, once it’s healed. Give you a bit of, how would we say, character?”

Porthos grinned. “That’s something, then.” He gingerly got to his feet, Aramis leaning forward to help him. It made him a bit dizzy, but not like he had been out in the forest.

At that moment, Treville came in, his blue cloak spotless. He smiled at Porthos. “Porthos. Glad to see you up and about. You did our ranks proud, today. All of you,” he nodded at Aramis. “But you especially, Porthos.”

Porthos stood straighter, and Aramis let go. “Just doin’ my duty, Sir.”

Treville smiled. “The King rewards those who show such selflessness in the line of duty. He wants to see you before we leave.”

Porthos shared a look with Aramis, one full of cautionary hope. “I’m uh, not presentable for the King,” Porthos said, cheeks darkening slightly.

“Believe me, he doesn’t care. He’s been retelling the story all afternoon to the whole court.”

Porthos cleared his throat. “Best not keep him waiting then.”

The King’s throne room applauded the Musketeers when they entered. Even Athos was already there, limping on a crutch between two other Musketeers that had accompanied Treville.

Porthos was suddenly extremely self-conscious, a rarity for him. He kneeled with Aramis and Treville in front of the King.

“They tell me your name is Porthos…” the King trailed off.

“Du Vallon, your Grace,” Treville supplied.

“Ah, right,” the King added. “Well, I must say, you displayed unbelievable selflessness and bravery today. And at great expense to yourself.” The King eyed the stitches in Porthos’ face somewhat disdainfully.

“It was my pleasure to serve, Your Grace,” Porthos said quietly.

“Indeed,” said the King dryly. “Still, you fought quite valiantly. I don’t think I’ve seen someone take a bullet and still win a sword fight! It was quite magnificent. Are you quite well?”

“Yes, your Grace. Thank you, your Grace.” Porthos said, uncomfortable with the praise.

The King looked thoughtful, then smiled. “Good man, then.” He waved his hand at an attendant nearby. “Porthos, I think today you’ve more than displayed your commitment to my elite regiment.” His attendant handed him a sword. Porthos felt his heartbeat quicken.

Aramis grinned widely at him, and Porthos bit his lip, trying to hide the grin of his own and stay solemn. The King tapped the flat of the sword on Porthos’ shoulder. “Porthos Du Vallon, rise, a King’s Musketeer.”

The room erupted into applause as Porthos stood, and Aramis slid a spauldron over his arm. It didn’t look like the others’ uniforms. It was huge and thick, a testament to his strength. Wetness prickled at Porthos’ eyes as Aramis swept him up into a hug. Treville was right behind him, extending his hand and shaking Porthos’ gently (it was painful because of his injuries, but Porthos was too happy to care). Athos came limping up after Treville and took Porthos’ hand in a firm grip. He smiled, and the look in his eyes was truly compassionate. Porthos couldn’t help smiling in return, even though it pulled his stitches.

Aramis wrapped his arm around Porthos again as they turned to leave, tired, hurting, but triumphant.

It suddenly hit Porthos so hard that he had to stop for a moment. He hadn’t been looking for a commission. He had been looking for a family. These men that surrounded him, in their unwavering support, protectiveness and love were what a true family must have felt like. He’d give his life for any of them, and he knew without a doubt they’d do the same. _That_ was family.

He flexed his arm, feeling the reassuring wrap of the leather around his shoulder. It _felt_ like family and victory and _home_ all wrapped into one. It was the physical reassurance that maybe his fears were unfounded.

Maybe he didn’t have to run to something better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
